


Pathetic, Glorious, Shameful

by Potoo



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: M/M, Spoilers for 1x07 and 1x08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potoo/pseuds/Potoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Chevalier is sentenced to die for his treason, Philippe is torn between how he should react and how he wants to react. When they are reunited, he still doesn't know what to feel; his love is the only thing that remains certain. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Philippe was no great poet. He didn't speak in that moment, only took the other man's hand, but if he had spoken, he would have told him that the moment Philippe stopped loving him would be the moment his heart stopped beating, and that love was a thing he cursed but could not change; and, if he was honest with himself, would not change even if he could. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pathetic, Glorious, Shameful

Perhaps Philippe should have expected it. To lie with a traitor – it was like a manifestation of his own venomous thoughts regarding his brother. He would never act upon them, that much was true: a coup d'état was the farthest notion from his mind. Yet they lingered with him, caressed his skin with spindly fingers and whispered promises of long-denied justice and glory into his ear. Those thoughts of treason were not so different from the Chevalier, with their quiet seduction and heated gentleness. Maybe they were one and the same, his lover and these thoughts, a pulsing abscess of envy and the kind of resentment one can only acquire after decades of abuse. 

And if they were, should Philippe not be relieved, he wondered as he lay in bed and watched the first rays of the sun come up after a sleepless, feverish night; be relieved, for with the Chevalier gone, his own treasonous thoughts would vanish as well? He might, for the first time in their lives, become the brother Louis desired. Obedient, with his feet cramped in a perpetual curtsy, his head bowed to receive his King's blessings and act only on his behalf. It was what Louis – their mother – Mazarin – what all of them had always wanted to shape him into, a snivelling courtier like the worst of them. 

Philippe turned in his bed, restless. He had pondered ordering Henriette to his side, but it had felt like treason to the Chevalier – to enjoy the warmth of her body while his warmth would soon leave him. The thought was near unbearable. He was a traitor, and a part of Philippe despised him for it. Not because he had deceived the King by having a rendez-vous with other nobles. There were worse offenses than that, in Philippe's humble opinion. But the Chevalier had betrayed _him_ by this act as well. He had not told him of it, and thus deceived him as much as the King, if not more. He had kept him in the dark for a good reason: had Philippe known of his deeds, he would have told him to stop, they both knew it. So it was treason not only against the King, but against Philippe, and that he could not so easily forgive. 

He should have expected it: as he himself had cavorted treasonous thoughts from time to time, flirting with a _what if Louis were dead_ or _how can he treat me thus_ or _if he does not soon start treating me justly, I will wrap my hands around his neck and––_ , it made only sense that this metaphorical lover would manifest in his true lover as well. He should be relieved: a hung, drawn, quartered Chevalier would surely mean his own treasonous thoughts would be hung, drawn and quartered as well, and he would become worthier than ever before. He should rejoice: as the Chevalier had betrayed him, justice would be served with his death, and Philippe would be able to sleep well again, his feelings free to latch onto another beautiful man. He should, he should, he should.

There were many things Philippe should be, should do, yet he had never felt much affection for people who told him _you should_.

–

He considered begging, after a night of no sleep and a day of fretful grief. But it would be as humiliating as it would be ineffectual, and nothing would be accomplished. His brother was too stubborn and too entitled to budge as soon as he had made a decision, and in this case, the decision was made, Philippe knew. Not even a beloved brother on his knees, mayhaps with tears in his eyes, would change his mind – and Philippe would never sink to such depths in the first place, so it was all moot. Besides, the Chevalier had done nothing to deserve such devotion. 

And so, Philippe tried to banish all thought of him from mind. There was a youth at court who had caught his eye a week ago – a sleek, blond boy of twenty years, with beautiful green eyes and a mischievous grin, some count's son or nephew – and he took him to bed that afternoon; but he had to send him away soon after the invitation, neither of them having finished, because only tears would spring forth from Philippe's body, and the boy could not be allowed to see them. It all reminded him of the Chevalier now, every touch, every finger on his skin and every pair of lips he kissed. He had no doubt that would pass, but for now, it seemed he had to grieve in more orthodox ways. 

Philippe had a servant bring him bouquets of extraordinary qualities, lilies and carnations and hyacinths. The royal finances would suffer, but what did he care? It was the royal family who would put him to death, so they could pay for these funeral flowers too. He would receive a traitor's death, though, there would be no funeral, and nobody would be mourning him. Philippe was uncertain if he should be wearing black – he had not yet decided if he would rejoice at or lament the Chevalier's death. 

Both, probably. 

He busied himself with re-arranging some of the bouquets but gave that up soon to instead sit down heavily on his bed. He would watch his death, he told himself. If they let him. It was the least he could do. Perhaps the Chevalier would even be happy to see him in his last seconds, even though in life he had often taken Philippe's affections for granted. Perhaps he would smile at him, and then the horses would begin to draw him apart, or the rope would draw tight around his neck, or the royal executioners would hack his limbs straight off. The Chevalier would scream, and Philippe would scream too. It was a nightmare, but if there was one thing he had learnt on the battlefield, it was that these needed to be borne to awake at the end of the night, to forget the horrors one had seen and to direct one's gaze to the fresh and hopeful future. 

– 

He could barely breathe whenever he thought of lifeless eyes staring at him. It would be a silent accusation. _Why didn't you save me,_ they'd ask, and _if you had let me alone all these years ago, this never would have happened to me_ and Philippe would want to yell at him that it was all his own fault, but the Chevalier would not be able to listen to him anymore. He would be alone at night, no matter how many willing and pliant bodies were around him, and it would be so cold without him. 

– 

In the end, no begging was required. God had reunited them through Louis' hand, although Philippe did not know for which purpose. His anger and his grief both left him breathless as he saw him in his chambers, and it was the anger that won out in the end, when he demanded not to be touched and made clear, once and for all, that no treason would be tolerated. Maybe that was it. Maybe this had been not only a lesson for the Chevalier, but also one for Philippe – to take his brother as he was, to show his King all the gratitude in the world, to keep all kinds of unappreciative thoughts banished far away from his thoughts? 

He did not know. 

He did not care much, he knew the moment the Chevalier began to cry and his heart yet again overflowed with affection; a damned emotion to be felt for a man so untrustworthy, spineless and devoid of wisdom. Yet his lover was also kind, and brave in his own way, and witty; and he was genuine with Philippe, in a raw way that hurt at times, more genuine than anybody else had ever been. 

Philippe was no great poet. He didn't speak in that moment, only took the other man's hand, but if he had spoken, he would have told him that the moment Philippe stopped loving him would be the moment his heart stopped beating, and that love was a thing he cursed but could not change; and, if he was honest with himself, would not change even if he could. 

Their coupling was sweet that night. The Chevalier, who was often precise when it came to his own pleasure but sloppy when it came to Philippe's, was gentle as he took off one layer of clothing after the other, neither of them feeling comfortable with a servant in Philippe's room; and he was even gentler as his tongue lavished every part of Philippe's skin, from his lips down to his cock, until he was a writhing and trembling mess. There were two fingers inside of him, drawing out the pleasure and stroking him slowly, when Philippe came, and the Chevalier merely hovered over him, peppering his face with soft kisses through his afterglow. 

The Chevalier was still hard, but this night only, Philippe did not care about this circumstance. Instead, he turned around and presented the other man his back. The Chevalier made a displeased sound, placing his hand on Philippe's hip, but did nothing else. 

“I considered begging,” Philippe told him a few moments later, when his heartbeat had slowed and his voice could be trusted not to come out as a moan. “For your life. But it would have made no sense, it would not have moved my brother.” 

To his surprise, the Chevalier agreed. His voice was ragged as he spoke, as if there was a hideous beast behind his teeth he was barely holding back. “I appreciate that you didn't. I could not bear the thought of you lessening yourself for my sake.” 

_Is it because you already lessen me enough by your mere presence?_ , Philippe wanted to ask but didn't. They all thought him weak and soft and foolish for keeping the Chevalier around, and his treason had proven them all right. Without him, Philippe could not even dare to dream how much power he could in his hands. 

Still he refused to look at the other man. 

“And I had planned to watch.” 

He could not bear it anymore; he turned. The Chevalier's eyes were huge and dark in the dim candlelight. “Your execution. Would you have liked that?” 

“Is this a topic of conversation that should be held in bed?” the Chevalier replied; the beast behind his teeth grew louder, joined by fear. “I would not have liked to be executed, if that is what you ask.” 

Philippe just stared at him. That was not what he had asked, and eventually the Chevalier gave in.

“Yes, I suppose it would have been preferable to the alternative,” he said, and his voice was much lower and quieter, a sign that he was about to use his next words to be serious for once in his life. “I would have been able to look at you one last time, and more importantly, I would have known you cared enough.”

Philippe did not move, but kept staring at him instead. The Chevalier raised a hand and slowly put it on his cheek. His fingers were very warm; to Philippe it seemed they were melting him. By God, how had he ever thought he could rejoice at this man's death? It would have brought him to his knees instead, he knew then, and it would have destroyed the love he held for his brother, to know these fingers would never touch him again because of Louis' decision. 

It was pathetic; it was glorious; it was shameful. Philippe felt himself smiling despite everything. The Chevalier's thumb moved from his cheek to his lips, and Philippe sucked it in, and was rewarded with a soft moan. His hand wandered to the other man's crotch, and there was another, decidedly louder moan. 

He shouldn't forgive him so easily, he shouldn't be so quick to give in to that angelic face, he shouldn't love him as he did, Philippe knew and cared not a bit. _Should, should, should, shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't_ , Philippe thought with revulsion. They all thought he should and shouldn't and made their rules in this court that drew freedom from everyone and left only machines in its stead. But he didn't heed such rules, and the gaze from the Chevalier's eyes as he came was all the appreciation he wanted in all of France.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, god, let this fandom grow strong and healthy and give us common tags. Please, god, forgive me for throwing out an un-betaed fic even though I'm ESL. Please, god, send us more MonChevy fics, and also give us a good ship name. Thanks, your Potoo. 
> 
> And, my dear readers: thanks for reading this, I'm A L W A Y S for constructive criticism, so please tell me what you liked and what you disliked! (: I based Philippe in here on what I think is his character in the show and on my rather narrow knowledge of the historical person, so go ahead and tell me how YOU would characterize these characters! I really just wanna talk to someone about them...


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